Pink
by stress
Summary: one part red plus one part white means a whole lot of grief for Skittery. Written for, and winner of, Skittery Week ’09.


Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

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**Pink**

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_one part red + one part white = a whole lot of grief for Skittery.  
Written for Skittery Week '09._

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Nobody knew exactly how it happened—or, if they did, nobody was talking. Nobody was owning up to it, either. In fact, if you asked any of the lodgers down on Duane Street, you'd be hard-pressed to get one of the boys to admit that it even happened at all. In a bunkroom full of countless rambunctious, street-wise newsboys, it was amazing how many of them were suddenly somewhere else entirely when it happened; that, or how conveniently blind or deaf they'd become.

It wasn't very unusual, you see, for some of the boys to use the old tin washtub for their laundry. After all, there was only so many times you could wear the same shirt before the body odor got so bad that the slums over on Bottle Alley smelled better than you do. A little bit of water from the pump and a sliver of soap could go a long way to get the sweat and the stink out.

Some figured that Racetrack Higgins was behind it, that he might've been the joker to do it, but he denied it, of course. Said he was down at the tracks, blowing the last quarter piece he had on a lame horse who finished fifth. Others thought it might've been Cowboy who done it on account of the color of his bandana… but no. The dirty old neckerchief was barely parted from Jack's neck, especially during the evening, so it really couldn't have been him.

Either way, no matter who done it, there was a thousand different ways it _could_ have happened, too—and just as many people who were prepared to swear up and down that they had nothing to do with anything.

In the end, there was only one thing that all of the boys were sure of: the color you got when you mixed a dingy white shirt in a washtub with something that red was a color no self-respecting newsie should ever wear.

--

Skittery Daniels was, as per his new and newly usual mood, scowling grumpily. His dark eyes were narrowed, staring down at his thin, lanky chest; the fierce lines of his pronounced frown were etched so deeply that they were visible even when he wasn't making such a face. Not that _that_ ever happened—ever since… the _incident_, Skittery didn't smile. He couldn't. If he forgot himself, even for a second, all he had to do was glance back down and any hint of a smile he might have would run for cover.

There was no possible way he could find any joy in life now. Not even a full belly or a hard-earned smoke could rekindle his sense of humor. No, the day that he found his shirt in such a state was the day that the gloom and doom settled over his head.

He wasn't always so glum and dumb—in Racetrack's words, and those were much better than some of the others the fellas had come up with—but… seriously? Pink?

_Pink_?

Even inside his head, inside his mind, Skittery had to scowl. There wasn't a less manly color—let alone _word_—in the whole of New York. And it had to happen to _him_!

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. His shirt was so stiff with dirt and grime that he could barely move, and the horrible stench was so strong that it just about had its own personality. All of the ladies, classy or questionable, on the street turned up their noses at him when they smelled him approaching. It was unacceptable, especially for a boy like him. There was nothing left for him to do except try to find some way to wash it.

He did it right, asking around first to make sure none of the other guys were planning on using the washtub. Nobody was and he filled it up himself, borrowing a bit of old soap from the washing up station. Hell, he'd even used an old, unsold newspaper and a piece of charcoal to make a sign with his name on it:_** skitiry**_.

Though, looking back on it now, that probably wasn't the smartest idea he'd ever had…

Still, what a low down dirty shame it had been to wake up the next morning, shuffle over to the washtub, peer inside hopefully with a tentative sniff and find that someone had thrown something in with the water. He could only imagine how absolutely red that something had to have been because, seriously, Skittery wasn't sure he'd seen anything so… so _pink_ in his life.

And to make matters worse, it was the only real shirt he had—and it wasn't even a real shirt! Times were tough, especially for a good for nothing newsboy like him, and the headlines were lacking. His improvisational skills were iffy at best—nowhere near as good as Cowboy's, huffed Skittery—and each penny was harder to come by than the last. Union suits cost a pretty one and, what with lodging and food and, well, certain recreational activities… there just wasn't enough money left to buy a shirt that wasn't so obviously pink.

Plucking at the shirt with the tips of his ink-stained fingers, Skittery shook his head and scowled even harder. It was embarrassing, it was, walking around like that but you had to do what you had to do. He'd be able to afford a new union suit in time; until then, he'd have to make do with what he had if he didn't want to walk around as naked as the day he was born.

If only the other fellas saw it that way… if only they realized they didn't want to see _him_ any other way.

"Hey, Skitts! Lookin' all pretty like always, eh?"

"Yeah! Anyone ever tell ya that pink's a real good color on ya?"

Oh, lordy. It was bad enough when it was the older guys, like Racetrack and Kid Blink, who was poking fun at him. But Snipeshooter? And Tumbler? Skittery had been out on the streets, scrapping for a bit of bread and a place to sleep before either of them was even born! And all because some smart son of a gun turned his only shirt—

—oh, it was enough to, well, turn a good guy into a miserable bummer who did nothing but sell a few papes here and piss on the world there.

But that was okay because Skittery had a plan. It wasn't much, only having occurred to him one of the last times Specs started running his mouth, but it was a start. The way he figured it, it would take him another couple of months or so to earn enough to buy some new clothes. He'd go mad if he had to listen to their taunts and teases for that long but, if this genius plan of his worked, he wouldn't have to.

He let the two younger boys have their fun, making jokes and poking fun at the pink, goading him without any sort of consequence. He didn't say anything back to them but the small, somewhat stunted and definitely crooked grin said it for him.

Skittery wouldn't consider himself all that intimidating but Tumbler and Snipes' reactions was gold. He wasn't sure which of them shut up and ran away from him quickest.

--

It was a couple of days later when Skittery finally had the chance to put his plan into motion. He'd picked that day specifically—it was a Wednesday, news was slow and most of the boys returned to the lodging house right after the evening edition had been sold.

The Children's Aid Society offered a good, hearty supper most of the time and, on Wednesdays, it was earlier than the rest of the week. Most of the guys had already been fed and were spending the night in the bunkroom. Some played craps, taking care to keep the dice hidden when the nuns and the old biddies came by, and there was more than one deck of cards out.

Skittery was one of the last to return. He'd been coming back later and later these last few weeks, figuring that the less he was around the other fellas, the less he had to listen to them talking about his shirt.

That night, though, that was the only thing he wanted to talk about.

It didn't take long. He'd shuffled into the bunkroom, taking his time and meeting their eyes as he dared them to start. He even patted the lengths of his sleeves, drawing their attention to the pale pink color. He'd barely made it to the edge of his bunk when he heard someone call out to him.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this is a boys' home. No girls allow—oh, Skittery! I didn't recognize ya there. I mean, I just saw the shirt, buddy. My mistake." Racetrack scooped up the dice he was playing with and gave it a toss. He was chuckling to himself as he did so, letting everyone in the bunkroom know that it was time to start another rousing round of pick-on-Skittery.

"Yeah. Yeah, Race. Yuk it up, why don't ya?"

"Can ya blame me, Skitts? It's…" Racetrack removed the stub of his cigar and, with his pudgy, stubby fingers, gestured at Skittery's chest. "… well, we can all see what it is."

"It ain't like I did it on purpose," Skittery said. He didn't consider himself much of an actor and he didn't need to be. The frustrated pout and dark expression came naturally to him. "I don't know why you guys have to keep on goin' on 'bout it."

"Ah, don't take it too personal," chimed in Mush. There was an innocent smile on his face but a teasing look in his dark brown eyes. He was having just as much fun as the others. "We'd do it to anyone who was walkin' 'round in… you know."

Skittery, despite his plan, found himself scowling as if on cue. It was so bad that some of the guys wouldn't even _say_ the color. Still, though Mush made him feel worse about the stupid color of his stupid shirt, he had to be appreciative of the opening he gave him.

"Really, Mush? Is that how all of ya feel?"

There was a whole chorus of answers from the newsboys hanging around the bunkroom—

"Yeah."

"That's 'bout it."

"Yup."

"Ain't nothin' personal, Skittery."

"Sorry, pal."

"Hell, I'd even laugh at _me_ if I looked like _that_."

Skittery nodded to himself, accepting each answer in turn. He'd expected that to be their response and he had to work hard to keep the vindicated expression from crossing his face. Just another minute now…

There was a bit of thunder coming from below, the sound of footsteps as they came up to the bunkroom. Amidst the continued laughter and talking, no one heard the noise but Skittery—and that was only because he was listening for it, waiting for it.

"So, let me get this straight. It don't matter who it is, if the guy's in… in _pink_, then he's fair game. That right?"

He was baiting the other guys and, if any of them had been thinking for once, they might've realized that. Skittery never wanted to talk about his shirt, and he usually stormed away, all grey clouds and doom-like, whenever the others started poking fun at him.

Still, it wasn't very often they had the chance to take potshots at one of their own.

"Yup."

"Ya could say that again."

"That's what I think."

"Uh-huh."

And then a new voice, "Say, what's goin' on in here?"

For the first time since… the _incident, _Skittery felt a small bubble of happiness well up in his chest. He turned his head away from the others, facing the open doorway just in time.

Spot Conlon, the king of Brooklyn himself, was standing there, his hands tucked under his suspenders. One finger was resting lightly on the gilded tip of his cane. He was wearing the most peculiar expression—guarded, but curious at the same time.

Feeling a bit brave, Skittery reached out one of his fingers and slipped it under Spot's suspender strap—Spot's very bright, obviously _pink_ suspender strap. He was brave but he wasn't stupid; he kept his eyes away from the piercing glare of the diminutive Brooklyn leader. He could only imagine how surprised and annoyed Spot was, but he didn't care. The way he saw it, Spot would either be so mad at the implication, or so taken aback by Skittery's uncharacteristic actions, that he would have enough time to run out of the bunkroom and down the steps before Spot even had a chance to remove his cane.

"Okay, fellas. If ya think what I got on is pink, what the hell do ya call that?" He snorted, moving his hand away from Spot and taking one or two necessary steps back. No, he wasn't stupid—just a little bit hassled and too reckless for his own good. "I'll say this much. It sure ain't no faded red."

There's always one in every crowd. In this case, it was Racetrack Higgins.

"Gee, Conlon, I never noticed it before. What a lovely shade of pink ya got there. I—"

"Higgins…"

And, just as Skittery had expected, Racetrack turned tail at the warning in Spot's voice and, holding his hands up, tried to backpedal. It wasn't for nothing that Spot Conlon was considered one of the most feared newsies in all of New York.

"—think it looks real good. I… it takes a real man to pull off pink, ya know."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you was gonna say. Now, Daniels," Spot said, turning to Skittery with an even more suspicious look than before, "ya wanna tell me what ya dragged my ass over the Bridge for? And, I tell ya, it better not have nothin' to do with my suspenders."

The room went quiet, the rest of the boys waiting to see what story Skittery was going to come up with. It was obvious to any of them with a brain that this was all Skittery's doing, that he'd set up the whole thing.

But he _did_n't come up with anything—he was far too satisfied and impressed with himself to worry just then was Spot had to say to him. In fact, with a small shrug and a wide grin, Skittery just gave a small wave and slipped out of the bunkroom door before any of them could stop him.

So surprised at Skittery's flippant, unconcerned response and exit, Spot just watched him go. By the time he figured that he might've been made a monkey of, the tall, lanky, pink-wearing newsie was already gone.

--

It was worth it, Skittery told himself as he nodded at Kloppman and, for the first time in weeks, stepped proudly out onto the street in his stained shirt. Even if the reprieve only lasted a couple of days, it was worth it. Even if Spot Conlon ended up turning on him and chasing him out of Brooklyn the next time he ventured over the bridge, it was worth it.

The smile was victorious if just a little short-lived. There was still one thing that was bothering him.

Now, if only he could figure which bummer it was who dyed his shirt in the first place…

* * *

Author's Note: _I love Skittery. I haven't had the chance to work on a piece devoted to him since _Pick Your Poison _was finished last year. Since that one was full of drama and angst, I thought I would try my hand at doing a little fluff piece with a humorous edge for his character week. I've always wanted to do something that talked about his pink shirt -- since its a fandom joke -- and I hope it does him justice :)_


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